For some reason the last few weeks I have been dreaming of going to Paris. Not the Paris of today, but Paris in the 1950's. Paris after the war, when a surge of relief was sweeping through Europe. When life was hard, but still full of possibilities. Paris that was full of expat writers sitting at the small cafe's drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes hour after hour. I can just imagine hob-knobing with the struggling writers, meandering through the streets, in and out of the shops looking for everything, yet buying nothing. Living on the cheap in the greatest city in the world.
I have not been many places, yet I have been to Paris, once. It was amazing. Walking the streets, seeing the majestic buildings, the cobble stone walk ways, strolling along the Seine, crossing bridge over bridge, it was magic. There was magic there. The best part was touring the city at night, with the lights ablaze from the apartments, seeing people eat dinner, and entertain guests, it gave me a slight glimpse into their lives. The only souvenir I have from Paris is a scarf I bought from a street vendor. I wear it all the time, and each time I wrap it around my neck, I am transported, even for a second back to Paris.
I think I just have the travel bug. I ache to travel right now. I want to hop a plane and jet set around Europe. Or stroll through Central Park. I want to go. I long to go. I hunger to go. But, alas we can't. Not this summer. Be have prior commitments and a commitment to our financial situation. So I will continually dream the Paris dream. I will get my fill by watching old movies, reading books, and dreaming of old Paris.